


In Which: Karkat Does a Goof Major

by Chemise



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Bulges and Nooks, Consent is Sexy, Dave doesn't understand troll anatomy, First Times, Gamzee is a psychopath it's fine, Gen, Gore, Karkat doesn't understand human anatomy so it's fine, Karkat fucks up and nearly dies, M/M, Multi, Nudity, Shower Sex, Smut, Touching, but it's totally fine, mentioned death, self-harm mentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9632501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemise/pseuds/Chemise
Summary: "Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you have just made a colossal mistake."What would have happened if Karkat had gone after Gamzee, instead of having the somewhat humorous intervention for Terezi?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man I'm not going to finish this. Like ever. Sorry!!
> 
> *This is a direct quote from Homestuck. Credit to Andrew Hussie. <3
> 
> The porn bits are a bit later. If you're gonna skim for it the setting and things won't make sense, as this is plot with a porn, not the other way round. ;)

       Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you have just made a colossal mistake. Really, it was a series of horrendously bad choices, that led up to what could be considered the biggest swirling shit storm of “fuck you” that you have ever brought upon yourself. It’s not like you didn’t deserve what you took on, but holy shitblistering jegus, you couldn’t have executed what went down more atrociously if you tried.

Short Version: You goofed major.

       It started out simple. You were trapsing around the meteor, talking to Dave through your communication-watch-doo-dad, trying to ignore the occasional ominous honks of circus horns that echoed through the vents above the long hallways. You were meandering along, listening out for any sign of a friend (or foe) when you stumbled upon a defiled, sleeping Terezi. She was out cold on the floor, her signature dragon cape wrapped unceremoniously around her neck as she snored. She appeared to be drenched in that nasty sticky substance you identified instantly as Faygo- and it appeared to be only the grape flavor. Anger washed over your short frame, your fists clenching tightly with the fury of a thousand green suns. You stood over Terezi, your _friend_ while she lay on the floor in her scalemate boxers, (her pants nowhere on the scene) and your brow furrowed. Eventually you snapped out of your angered gaze to de-captchalogue a chair you borrowed from the common room, and you took a seat on it, waiting for your friend to wake up. You would have woken her yourself, but she probably needed the rest and you sort of didn’t want to get sticky with Faygo.

       And as you sat there, waiting for her to wake up, you were suddenly overcome with that strange hatred again. It didn’t seem like a sort of Kismesis-type of hate, it was just flat out loathing. You were _pissed_ , and you wanted to hurt someone. You wanted to hurt _him_. You let Dave know what you were about to do, and then you left your little communication-crab-dealy with Terezi. You dawned your sickles, and you abandoned her in search of one troll. This was mistake number one.

       He wasn’t too hard to find. You’re not sure if it was because he wanted you to find him or not, but regardless, you followed the spooky honks like you were playing some deadly game of circus-themed marco-polo, and were led directly to the sick highblood. He was just sitting in the center of a dark room when you stormed in, face red with fury, the tiny hairs on your neck were standing on end, but you tried to keep your blood-pusher steady. It was slamming against your ribcage as your eyes sifted through the darkness, waiting for Gamzee to move. When he did, you almost peed a little, jumping slightly as he turned to face you.

       His eyes were all wrong. His hair was matted and sweet son of a grubfisted assmuffin, he _reeked_ of Faygo and old sopor and… There was another scent you couldn’t place. It filled your lungs and your whole body and choked you out until you gagged. What was that smell?

       You finally saw the blood on the walls, and you nearly hurled. Your eyes caught sight of a familiar face, and your veins ran cold. That smell, it was the stench of death. Tavros’s severed head was staring at you, eyes open and glazed over. They had a bluish tint to them, like some sort of growth had developed, since maggots can't exist in space, it was likely microbial life had taken over all the corpses on the meteor. Speaking of which, they were all there. All of the deceased members of your party; Eridan, Feferi, Tavros, Equius, Nepeta, Vriska—Well, all except Aradia, of course. You shake, wobbly red tears spilling out of your eyes as you look at your friends, and then the one responsible. You curse him as he stands before you, grinning as if he were proud of what he’s done. You curse him a thousand times, and you gather your might into a fighting stance. He chuckles, and you curse him some more. Eventually the words coming out of your mouth aren’t even words anymore, just strings of sounds, aggravated by the amount of emotion in your voice.

       You don’t stop making the angered word-sounds until Gamzee’s laughter erupts suddenly, into a spine-shuddering cackle, his distorted bass rumbling menacingly through the vents. He laughs and you quake with fear, your confidence fleeing faster than you had hoped. Somehow, instead of listening to the wise part of you thinkpan, and you note that this is also the sane part too, you decide to hold your ground. This is your second mistake. You should have run for the metaphorical hills.

But you didn’t.

       He draws a club and you catch it in the crook of one of your sickles. You go in for a strike with the other and he grabs your wrist, yanking you upward, drawing out a pained cry from your throat. You screech as his hand makes a fist with your wrist inside, effectively breaking it. The sickle in that hand clatters to the floor and you claw at his arm with the other one. You get a decent hook in and all he does is grin, before throwing you to the floor. You hurry to get up, blinking through a wave of tears, brought on by the pain in your arm, but just as you get to your feet, Gamzee lands a blow to your collar bone with a blood-stained club. You cry out again, your scream bouncing off the cold tile floor you are abruptly met with, and suddenly your stomach feels warm and damp. You freeze, finding your good hand wrapped around the handle of your sickle, whose curved blade was now embedded deep in your abdomen. You swallow hard as your ex-moirail chuckles dangerously above you. This is your third mistake.

…

 

       You are suddenly aware of everything- including the fact that you had apparently passed the fuck out- because now the echoes of a chainsaw and several familiar voices have filled the room. You find yourself staring at the ceiling, as somehow you have been moved onto your back. Your eyes drift slowly over to where Kanaya, Rose, and Terezi were attacking Gamzee, and winning. You watch for a moment before you hear a familiar voice to the other side of you.

       “Holy fu- Karkat, can you hear me?” It was Dave. Your eyes move over to meet his uncharacteristically worried expression. His shades were atop his head, and his white-blonde eyebrows were peaked above a pair of concerned red irises. You open your mouth to speak, but when you try, your mouth fills with blood. You turn your head to sputter it out, so you don’t aspirate it and drown, which unleashes a searing pain from your shoulder. You hiss and cough, exacerbating the searing feeling to a white hot, and you feel yourself passing out from it. You try desperately, to focus on something else, so that you don’t faint again.

        The thing that you focus on, are Dave’s hands. You can see where his arms disappear past where your line of sight ends, but you can _feel_ his hands on your abdomen, where your sickle should be. You don’t see a handle rising from you, so you think that Dave must have removed it, not realizing that it was the only thing stopping all the blood from coming out of your body. Your entire torso is damp and sort of warm, and from the wetness beneath your head you figure you are currently laying in a puddle of your own cherry-colored shame.

        This is probably a bad time to be self-conscious. You are aware that pretty much all your friends know about your disgusting mutation, and they don’t _really_ seem to give a shit. You are also aware that they could be lying to you so that they can have a good laugh whenever you’re not within earshot. You are your own twisted brand of conceited, so of course you casually assume all your friends secretly hate you for something so petty, like your freak blood.

       “Hey, you still with me? Don’t go back to sleep, dude.” Dave’s voice breaks your self-indulgent train of thought, causing your eyes to drift up to meet his once again. You grimace as a strange pain radiates from within your stomach. You can see Dave’s expression shift from worry to disgust, as he shifts his hands _inside your body_. You want to yell at Dave for violating you this way, for gnashing his dirty human hands against your gashed organs. You open your mouth to give him an ear full, but are silenced by a burning sensation exploding from the gash in your guts. You watched some kind of gross smoke raise up from where the gash was, and you felt like you were going to puke. You wanted to scream Dave’s head off- if words could cause physical pain, Dave would be reduced a steaming pile of viscera topped with a pair of totally ironic sunglasses. You then would piss on his new disgusting form, just as a post-mortem “fuck you”. Dave must have seen the anger in your eyes, as he slowly removed his hands from your guts to show you a small metal object.

       “Kanaya told me to hold this inside your gash, because it’s some kind of advanced Troll healing thing or whatever that’ll zap you better. I have no clue what I’m doing, but she said she didn’t trust herself with all the blood.” You have never seen him this panicked. His voice shook, and you’d have thought he was the one that was hurt, not you. You turn your attention to the little silver ball in Dave’s hands, and watch as some of your cherry-red innards dripped off it, onto your chest below. You shiver as you realize your sweater had been cut away, and can feel your grubscars hardening in response to the cold temperature of the meteor.

        The silver ball was something you’d seen before on Alternia, and completely forgot existed. They were typically reserved for highbloods, probably since they were more valuable and more likely to be kept alive. You guess it makes sense for Kanaya to have appearified one for the occasion, or maybe Equius had prepared a stash? Either way, even a complete idiot could use one, so you relaxed a little. You kind of made a nod with your head to signal to Strider that he should keep fixing you before you bleed out and die.

        “Don’t go to sleep, okay?” Dave says as he plunges his hands back into your abdomen, working the device inside you. You were too dazed to remember how they work, but from the steamy cloud rising from your gut, the smell of burning flesh invading your odor cavities, and the white-hot heat that overpowered every other pain you were feeling, you gather that it’s closing up all the holes by burning them shut. It makes sense to your hazy thinkpan at least, and it puts you at ease. Your whole body feels heavy, and you feel your eyelids slowly shutting-

          “Keep your eyes open Karkat, you can’t go to sleep now.” Dave’s shaky voice snaps at you, and your eyelids flutter back open. You want to look back over at the commotion to your right, but your damaged collar bone forbids it. You have no choice but to stare at Strider’s traumatized expression as he moves his hands around in your guts. You watch as he blinks tears out of his eyes, wiping them on his shoulder as he works steadily. He pulls his hands from your guts after a moment, having done all he can with the device for the time being. He looks at his viscera-coated hands and gags visibly, wiping them on a shred of your shirt. His gaze meets with yours after he removes the thick, bloody coating from his hands, and you offer an apologetic expression.

           “I’m gonna have to carry you.” He says after a pause, and you clench your teeth with anticipation. This is going to hurt. “Ready?”

 _No._ You give the smallest of nods as not to agitate your collarbone, because you know it’s best to get it over with. You feel his arms slide under you, and you take in a sharp breath. All you smell is blood and death, and before you were ready _everything_ is aching and your shoulder throbs more than anything else. You focus on some lesser pain; your wrist maybe, but ouch _fuck_ that hurts just as bad. Why does everything have to be fucking broken? Why did you have to go after that asshole? You should have just told Terezi to stay away from him. You should have sat your tiny ass on that chair and bantered with Dave until she woke up. You should have-

           You realize you can’t change the past, and thinking about things after the fact will only make you feel worse than you already do. Dave is muttering something, but your pan is still foggy so you don’t try to make out what he’s saying. You notice the wetness coating your back and head and the back of your pants, and you remember that it’s probably blood. And now you wish you didn’t remember that because you also remember how Dave gagged a moment ago from looking at your insides. Great. Even a _human,_ a being that has the _same blood color as every other human_ , knows you’re a disgusting mutant ―but that can’t be, he’s crying and you think he’s saying something to you now. You finally decide to climb out of your thoughts and listen.

            “Oh my god this is all my fault, I should have fucking run to you as soon as you said what you were gonna-” He sniffs, choking on his words. “I’m so sorry, oh god Karkat, please be okay. I already lost my bro, I can’t lose you too.” His sneakers squeak as he walks, probably wet from the puddle of blood he walked through to get to you. You feel tears sneaking out of your eyes, and you feel so guilty. You try and clear your throat, you collar bone throbbing in protest.

            “Not… Your… Fault…” You manage to croak out to Dave, and he looks at you as if he didn’t realize you were listening. He stops after a few more steps and hits a button with his elbow, opening a door. It sends a little gust of air as it _whooshes_ out of the way, and Dave navigates you into a respite block. _His_ respite block. He lets the door close automatically, apparently not entirely concerned with it. He brings you directly to his abulation block, or as the humans call it, the ‘bathroom’. He lays you gently on the floor and takes off his cape, tossing it in a hamper, likely to be cleaned later. It is stained with a purple color, your red color, and some darker red. You watch as Dave pulls his shirt off next, and you look away quickly as a slight blush makes its way to your cheeks.

           “Dude, I’m not naked. Relax.” He laughs at you a little, before opening up a cabinet stocked with medical supplies.

           “Why?” You want to say more (you always do, it’s rare you’re rendered speechless) but what with the state of your throat and the soreness around it, you figure one word should do the trick.

          “Huh? ―Oh. I can be clumsy.” He said it like he’d said it a thousand times. You notice the fresh bruises to his arms where Gamzee must have got a few hits in… and you notice he has a black eye. You also watch as he holds his arms away from you in a deliberate fashion. You sort of catch a glimpse of the rows of straight lines on his arms, some fresh, some scabbed, and some scarred. You would be an idiot to think that Gamzee was responsible for those- but you sort of captchalogue that thought for later… metaphorically, of course.  You watch Dave set out rolls of gauze and compression wraps and antiseptic, your whole body aching. Dave turns to look at you, frowning with worried thought. You raise your thick brows in question, hoping he’ll fill you in on the newest dilemma.

          “I should rinse you off before I wrap you up in all this shit.” He moves over to you, slipping off his shoes, then his socks. “You’re covered in blood.”

          You shoot him an annoyed look, because you’d be a moron not to notice that. You’re hurt and a little dazed, but you aren’t brain dead.

          “Hey I don’t know how badly you got the shit kicked out of you before I was on the scene. You were drooling there for a while.” He is now only in boxers, and he kneels to your side and reaches to undo your pants.

          “Wait-” You cough, your good hand shooting out to catch his wrist. The sudden movement sends too many pangs of holy-fuck- _ouch_ through your chest, but you don’t really care right now.

          “It’ll take you ten years to get them undone by yourself. Just- I’m not trying to put moves on you man just let me fucking help you.” He’s getting frustrated, but he doesn’t pull away from your grip. You huff, and close your eyes, resolving to hold the hem of your boxers so they don’t accidently slip down with your pants. You realize that you’re being stupidly shy about your body, especially since Dave’s just molested your _fucking intestines_ , but you’d like to keep whatever shreds of dignity you have left in tact. Once Dave gets your pants off and tosses them in the hamper, you bite your lip when you see your blood on them. There is a cherry-red puddle of that in Gamzee’s block. This thought sickens you.

          “Hey, Karkat?” Dave is threading a needle, and you look at him. “I think it’d be better if I close this hole up before you rinse off.” You can tell he is not comfortable doing this.

          “You.. Sure?” Your voice sounds weird. Like you’ve been gargling acid- well, more than usual.

          “I’ve done this before, but never on someone else.” Your eyes start picking out all the scars on his porcelain skin. “I’m gonna start now.”

          You don’t really even feel what he’s doing anymore, what with the overload of pain from everywhere else. While he works, you try to catalogue your injuries: A broken collar bone (that hurts the most), a broken wrist, your stupidly self-inflicted stab wound, and also apparently some bruise on your face. Probably where you fell and caught yourself with your cheek and your sickle. You’re lucky that Gamzee didn’t behead you after you passed out. You guess you’re probably lucky just to have made it out alive. You look back down toward your bloodstained chest, and watch as Dave’s careful hands pull your skin back together. You kinda feel like Troll Humpty-Dumpty, with all the Condesce’s hoof-beasts and soldiers trying to put you back together. Being reminded of that now makes you realize how stupid that entire story even is, like, why wouldn’t the Condesce have told the soldiers to ride their goddamn hoof-beasts into the nearest town for a fucking doctor or something? How much of an idiot child were you to have enjoyed that? The answer is very much. Past you is the dumbest bucket of festering discharge you ever fell ass-backwards into.*

          Dave finally ties off the cord and snips away the needle, having completed stitching your wound back together. He breathes a sigh of relief, and then meets your eyes again. You offer him a sort of empathetic expression, and he shrugs a little before sliding his arms beneath you again. You wince as you’re picked up once more, and Dave puts you on a chair in the shower. A chair. In the shower?? Your mouth would contort into the shape of a sideways question mark, if that was possible.

          “I take long showers.” That’s all Dave gives you, before he reaches for a clean cloth to dab against your bloodied cheek. The water rains on the both of you in a soothing fashion, and you feel weird sitting there in your spade-printed boxers. Dave’s have little records on them, and it sort of makes you smile. You watch as the fabric starts to cling to Dave’s skin with moisture from the shower. He washes you gently, like he was unearthing a fossil, but you could see his hands trembling slightly. There are a lot of things you wish you could say, and you can tell from Dave’s anxious expression that you are not alone. Sometimes he opens his mouth, drawing in an attention-seeking breath like one does before speaking, but then he falls silent. His mouth clamps closed, and his eyes dart back to whatever part of you he was washing.

          You have been washed before, and it was never this weird. There was one time you fell down a flight of stairs, when you were younger, and your lusus had to wash you up. The difference between Dave and your lusus, besides the very obvious things, is that your lusus knew your body. Crabdad had been your custodian for your entire life. They raised you, and watched you grow, and even if they were disgusting from time to time, they knew how your body was and how it worked and all that jazz. Dave, on the other hand, knew nothing of your body, or of any troll’s body (as far as you knew, anyway). His hands were too gentle on your skin as he took the soapy cloth over you, and it was almost… teasing in a way. He had started at your face, and washed behind your ears, then your neck and very, very carefully around your shoulders. He did your arms next, one and then the other, and then your chest. His brows were peaked in curiosity as he took the washrag over your smooth chest, then lower to your abdomen, careful not to get soap in your freshly stitched gash, and then before you could stop him he’s _dragging the cloth over your too-sensitive grub scars_. His eyes are wide when they meet with yours, following the unexpected moan that sneaks out of your throat. You shuddered as a warmth finds its way to your groin. Your face goes red with a blush, and you watch as Dave’s face mirrors it.

  
          “Oh, dude, I’m sorry I didn’t know tha-” You bring your good hand up to his mouth, resting a finger against his soft lips to silence him. He nods, and avoids the area after that, but part of you wishes he would have continued. Your body aches in so many places that even the smallest sensation of pleasure feels better than the throbbing soreness that has seemed to encompass you. You recall that the bloodstain on your pants included the entire backside of them, and you know that they had to have soaked through all the way to your boxers. You look up to meet Dave’s eyes, and he cocks his head slightly.

          “Something wrong?” He asks you, flipping his wet hair from his eyes.

          “My-” You start to speak, sputter a cough, and continue. “My boxers are soaked.” He blinks at you for a minute, and then laughs. The sound bounces off the metal shower walls and fill your head and you glare at him.

          “With _blood,_ you mucus encrusted grub muncher.” He snickers, shaking his head.

          “I knew what you meant. I can’t believe I ever missed your voice.” He chuckled again and you rolled your eyes. So much for that whole moment you had before. “So, do you want me to take them off of you?” He asks, after a pause. You did want that a moment ago, but maybe you don’t now. You chew on your lip, mulling it over for a moment before giving a small nod. Dave blinks and kneels before you, taking the hem of your boxers on either side of your hips and you blush madly but your sore collarbone forbids you from looking away to hide your shame.

“Second thoughts?” Dave raises a thin, blonde brow.

“Wh- No. I just-” You stop stuttering and wave your good hand to motion for him to proceed. He pulls your boxers off as quickly as caution will allow, and hangs them on the shower door. You watch as he tries not to look at you, and does anyway.

“Well, go ahead and look then. I guess I am an alien to you.” You huff, that pang of warmth resurrected by Dave’s staring. Now that you’ve made the offer, you’ve got a pale human inches from your skin as he inspects you. It’s strange, but for some reason you… you _like_ the way he looks at you. You definitely like the careful strokes to your grubscars and you don’t try to hide your moans this time.

You don’t dare look up from the spot on the floor where you keep your eyes, though you just know that Strider’s eyebrows are likely on the ceiling. He doesn’t stop stroking your scars though, and then they find the rest of you. He trails his porcelain fingers along your thighs, and up your arms, and through your hair. You feel yourself relaxing into his touch, closing your eyes, and letting out the occasional hum when he does something with his hands that feels nice. Eventually he tangles his hands in your hair, and oh how you moan when they meet your horns. He doesn’t seem very surprised at this development, but he doesn’t stop, either. His palms massage the base of your nubby horns, rubbing all around them, and you groan with pleasure, feeling your bulge un-sheath. It doesn’t register that you are fully exposed to this human now, until his eyes meet the bright-red tentabulge that is performing an erotic dance between your legs.

“Oh man, that’s some hentai shit right there.” Dave’s voice fills your ear, and your eyes flutter open. You glance down and cover yourself instinctively, though your bulge ignores all orders to retreat. It tangles itself in your hands and you whine, glaring down at your member.

          “It does what it wants to. It’s annoying.” You basically hiss the last part directly at your wiggly wang.

          “Huh.” He reaches out to touch it, and you lean away, wincing as your body reminds you that you are injured and moving is painful. “Oh, sorry.” He says as he pulls his hands away, and you look up at him apologetically.

          “You.. You want to touch it?” You are a little surprised at his persistence to touch you.

          “Well, yeah, kinda. Only if you want me to, though. I won’t be mad if you aren’t comfortable with it.” He is blushing, you can see this now because you have allowed your red irises to meet his. You search his eyes and he searches yours and then suddenly his lips are against yours and your hands leave your bulge to cup his jaw and pull him closer. His fingers touch your scars again and you moan into his mouth, your tongue skirting his lips cautiously, before tangling with his own. The water above you is warm and gentle but his hands are hot and your body aches but you don’t stop trying to melt into him. You let his hands explore your body while your tongue explores his mouth, though when he tries to do the same you, your mouth is assaulted by a sharp, iron taste. You swallow and he pulls his tongue back, grinning. 

 

     “Did you know you have razor blades for teeth? Because you have  _ razor blades for teeth,  _ Karkat.” He tries to laugh it off, but you could see the little bit of red on his lips from where your teeth had grazed them. Your eyebrows peak with worry, but he leans in and presses a soft kiss between them. “It’s okay dude.” When he pulls away, he smiles at you and it’s like the world smiles at you and you have  _ no idea where these feeling came from. _

 

     “D- Dave?” You stutter out, and he sort of cocks his head a little. “Do you… You are not freaking out as much as I thought you might about this.”

 

     “I dunno if you noticed, but I’m kind of all about keeping my cool.” He winks and you roll your eyes. You watch his mouth fall into a familiar smirk as he traces his thumbs along your grubscars, and you catch yourself moaning again. You whine through your nose, squinting up at him. 

 

     “Stop looking so smug.” There is a desperation in your voice that you hope Dave doesn’t hear. You watch as his smirk breaks into a grin, and palms your scars on both sides. You feel the wet squirming of your bulge between your legs and belly, and soon the careful attention Dave is paying to your scars just isn’t enough. You reach out with your good arm and pull Dave in for a kiss, because you suddenly feel the need to be close to him. He doesn’t resist, and soon your lips are moving against his in a glorious eruption of bliss. He ends up straddling your lap, and you notice there is something hard and heavy against your stomach. You can’t really look -and you don’t want to leave Dave’s mouth anyhow- so you slide a hand up Dave’s scarred thigh until you meet the hem of his boxers. You press your hand against his smooth stomach, dipping your thumb below the waistband and his breath catches against your mouth. You kiss him as your hand meets something… What the everloving fuck is that???

 

     You don’t want to startle him by freaking out, so you attempt to keep your cool. Dave does it all the time, maybe you should give it a try for once. You take your hand along the… shaft? Of whatever you are touching, and Dave straight up shudders. His eyes flutter closed and his head leans against yours and he  _ pants in your ear _ when you do it again. You wrap your hand around it and he sucks in his lower lip, biting down and spreading the blood that was already pooling from before. You find the top part of it, soft and round with a little opening and you rub your palm around it.

  
     “Nnngh, fuck, karkat…” Dave moans into your wet hair, and his hips buck forward slightly. You take the shaft of his human bulge into your hand again and stroke it languidly, drawing shaky moans from Dave’s mouth as he clings to you. You almost feel proud of yourself, you have literally single-handedly reduced Dave Strider, the “Cool Kid” himself, to a mewling puddle in your lap. 


End file.
